Love Potion Number 9
by Comickazi13
Summary: A Beatles Fanfic. George doesn't think he's very good with women, so he takes John's advice and goes to a little shop downtown where he buys a bottle of love potion from a questionable gypsy.
1. Driving from the Gig

George dove for the car as his fellow band mates were assaulted by their adoring fans. Police officers swarmed the crowd, trying to pry girls' hands off John, Paul, and Ringo. When everyone was in the car, the doors slammed shut behind them and another barrage of girls smacked into the window, kissing it, pushing autograph papers against it as if it could melt through the glass, and getting fingerprints all over it. A few minutes of this and the car was screeching down the highway, fan-free.

"Lively lot, those ones," John smirked as he wiped blood-red lipstick off his cheek with his sleeve. "Feistier than normal."

"I thought we'd never get out of there," Paul panted, trying to catch his breath. He plastered a smile to his face despite his tiredness. "We're sure lucky lads, though."

"Indubitably," John agreed.

"You alright, George?" Ringo asked, his eyes drifting over to his quiet friend.

"Hmm?" George replied distantly. There was a long pause. "Yeah," he finally breathed. He didn't want to be talked to. He just wanted to think. Before today, he'd always attributed the fact that he got to the car before the other lads did to the fact that his legs were longer and skinnier than the others'. He thought that his agility was the reason. But, today, a new idea crept into his mind.

What if he wasn't in danger in the first place?

What if girls didn't go for him?

Normally, this wouldn't bother him so much. But February was coming up and he knew what that meant. John, Paul, and Ringo would have girlfriends and he wouldn't. It got lonely sometimes and George didn't want it to happen to him again. He didn't like feeling lonely, especially around Valentines' Day.

"Something's wrong," John said warily. "George may be the 'quiet Beatle,' but he's never this silent after a gig."

"What's wrong, George?" Ringo asked again.

"Nothing," George insisted.

There was another long silence. Finally, John whipped out a comb from his back pocket and started running it through his hair. He pushed himself up in his seat to examine his reflection in the small strip of metal at the top of the door.

"Well, whatever it is," he shrugged, "I'd get over it because _we_ are invited to a party at the Record Room!"

"No kidding?" Paul exclaimed. "_The_ Record Room? How'd you get us in the Record Room?"

"We're the Beatles," John laughed. "We can get in anywhere we want." He leaned over and tapped George's knee. "So get out of this mood."

"I will," George sighed. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."


	2. At the Record Room

Bright colored lights swirled around the floor, mingling themselves with dancers. Ringo and Paul had picked out a couple girls from the crowd and were dancing with them to the peppy music playing through the radio. John was off in a corner with a group of men and women, laughing it up. And George was sitting at the bar, watching his friends. He knew that he had promised the lads that he'd get out of his dark mood, but he was still thinking about his lack of girlfriends.

George looked over to John's corner. A pretty redhead sat on his lap, her arms around his neck. She was laughing at everything he said.

"How does he do it?" George asked himself. He spun around on his barstool and looked out at the dance floor as a slow song whispered through the radio.

The blonde Paul was dancing with wrapped her arms around his neck. George couldn't see daylight between the two of them.

Ringo and the black-haired girl he was dancing with slipped off the dance floor. Together, they went to the bar and ordered some drinks.

"S'cuse me," said a soft voice. George turned around. "You looked lonely, so I thought I would…come over and sit with you." The girl's inquisitive blue eyes widened and she ran her pointer finger through her mouse-brown hair. "Wow," she breathed. "Y-You're George _Harrison_."

"Yeah," George smiled. "That's me. What's your name?"

"I…I'm Jacqueline," the girl stuttered.

"Nice to meet you, Jacqueline," George grinned. He tapped the seat next to him. "Why don't you sit down?"

"I…I…I…I have to go to the bathroom," Jacqueline stammered. She hurried across the dance floor to the other side of the club, where she disappeared through a fire exit.

"My luck," George sulked. "She was really pretty too."


	3. John's Advice

"I'm telling you, lads," George sighed as he flopped on the couch at the hotel later that night. "I'm just not cut out for being a romantic."

"Nonsense," Paul rolled his eyes. "You're a very good-looking man. I don't know why you think you can't get a girl." He sat down in the chair across from the couch. "Here, let me give you some tips. For one thing, you've got to dance every once-in-a-while. Girls aren't attracted to guys who just sit at the bar looking lonely."

"Really, Paul, it's just no use," George grimaced. He paused for a minute. "There was this girl at the club…She didn't even talk to me that much and she…just left."

"I'm sorry, George," Ringo sympathized. "What was she like?"

"I didn't have a chance to even talk to her," George shrugged. "But, she was very pretty. Her name was Jacqueline."

"Did she have brown hair and blue eyes?" John asked as he flipped through a magazine.

"Yeah," George said, cocking an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I met her too," John sighed. "She's a nice girl. She's a bit dull, but she's nice. Very shy." Slowly, John shut the magazine and walked over to the couch, plopping down next to George. "If you really want to get the girl, Georgie, why don't you seek…help?"

"Help?" George asked.

"Help," John repeated. "There's this little place I saw downtown. Me and my pals from the bar slipped out and went to go check it out. The lady who runs it is a love expert. Her name's Madam Ruth."

"How exactly can she help someone get a girlfriend?"

"She has her ways," John shrugged. He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled an address on it. "Just go here. I guarantee you won't be sorry."

George took the paper from John and studied it momentarily. Then, he stood up, still looking at the paper, and walked out of the door.


	4. Madam Ruth

The grimy streets were dark and the air was chilly. George pulled his collar around his neck as he proceeded down the old, brick avenue. He checked the scrap of paper in his hand and scanned the rows of addresses on the buildings. Finally, he came to the right one. He lowered his paper.

The old, rickety, wooden building was covered with vines and smelled of mildew. The shutters to the windows were hanging from their hinges, waving in the wind as if beckoning George to come inside. The windows themselves were cracked and stones lay in the street, the obvious cause of the broken panes. Hanging on a post in the front yard was a sign that read "Madam Ruth's Spiritual Transactions" on the first line and "Get your ghosts, potions, and palm readings with a specialist" on the second line.

"Specialist of what?" George thought to himself. "Anti-property value?" Despite the look of the house, George made his way over the cobblestone walkway, which was interlaced with weeds and dried leaves from the wilted trees that stretched their long, skeletal arms above his head. When he reached the front door, he paused for a moment before knocking.

Instantly, there were cat yowls from inside and the sound of crashing and shattering.

"Get back, you lazy things!" someone shouted within. "Goblin! Ghoul! Blackie! Princess! Get outta my way!" The door swung open and a hazy green eye appeared in the crack. "Whaddya want?"

"Erm…" George faltered. He checked the address again. "Is this Madam Ruth's place?"

"Whatsit to ya?" the middle-aged lady rasped. The faint smell of cigarette smoke wafted from the door as she spoke.

"I have a problem and my friend…"

"So you're not with the Electric Company?" Madam Ruth interrupted.

"No," George said confusedly.

"Water Company?" she tried again.

"No." There was a long silence.

"What about the lawn care place?"

"Are you kidding me?" George huffed, indicating the overgrown yard.

"Okay, okay," Madam Ruth's thick, half-Brooklyn, half-Russian accent sneered. "Ya can't be too careful 'round here." There was another silence before several locks clicked and the door swung open. "Come on in. Mind the cats. They're crazy. But, they're good for attractin' spirits, so whaddya gonna do?"

George stepped over the threshold and watched as four shapes ran into the darkness. The silhouette of Madam Ruth moved towards a door and opened it, shedding light into the dark hallway.

"The ghosts don't much care for light," she shrugged, stepping aside for George to walk into the room. "I keep the halls and the other rooms nice and quiet for them. This room is for business." The door slammed shut.

George turned to get a better look at Madam Ruth. She had, long, greasy, black hair that curled from her scalp to her shoulders. The top of her head was covered with a red-orange bandana and the rest of her outfit matched accordingly. Her long, crooked nose had an itty bitty wart growing on the tip. Her eyelids were covered with sparkling, purple eye shadow and lumpy mascara clumped her fake eyelashes together. She grinned and a gold tooth glinted in the candlelight.

"Sit down, Mr. Harrison," she smiled cordially. "I had no idea that a Beatle like yourself would ever be in need of assistance from a poor, retired gypsy like me."

George seated himself at a small table and Madam Ruth seated herself on the other side. As George looked around the room, strange objects caught his eye. Voodoo dolls were pinned up to the wall by their chests. Tribal masks hung from hooks as did paintings of regal-looking people. Purple curtains hung, not from the window, but from the ceiling. The window was uncovered, allowing the light of the full moon to spill in. Madam Ruth pulled some Tarot cards out of her pocket and started shuffling them like a Blackjack dealer from Los Vegas.

"So, Georgie," she smirked, "what seems to be the problem?" With one crooked hand, she tugged at her purple, knitted shawl so it stayed around her shoulders. She shuffled the cards again, not taking her eyes off George.

"You see, madam…" George started.

"Ay!" Madam Ruth cackled. "'Madam' is it? No, no, Georgie! You must call me _Ruth_. I prefer for my clients to be on first-name basis with me."

"Oh…Alright. Ruth, then, I have this problem…"

"Everybody has problems, Georgie," Madam Ruth sighed. "The world has problems. What is _your _problem?"

"I have this trouble with girls," George blushed. Madam Ruth grabbed his hand and studied his palm.

"AH!" Madam Ruth laughed after a moment. "There's a young _lady_ you try to impress? But, she gives you no reaction! Your palm says it all! I know _things_ about you, Georgie. What you need is my special elixir: Love Potion…number nine."

"Why number nine?" George asked.

"It took me a couple tries to get it right," Madam Ruth shrugged. She leaned down, grabbed a dusty bottle from beneath the table, and walked over to a curtain. She pulled a frayed cord and the curtains drew aside, revealing a wooden basin. "Now, I am going to make you a special bottle of my special Love Potion Number Nine!"

"Right there in the sink?" George said, raising an eyebrow.

"Right here in the sink," Madam Ruth replied, winking.

With this, she started pouring ingredients into the basin from all kinds of containers: glass bottles, boxes, spice shakers, and even plastic baggies. With a wooden ladle, she started to stir the concoction. It turned black as ink and the smell of turpentine filled the room. George plugged his nose.

"Not very good on the senses," he mumbled.

Madam Ruth took out a ladle-full and poured it into the dusty bottle. With that, she corked it and handed it over to George.

"That'll be three dollars," she smiled. "No refunds."

"Three dollars for a bottle of stuff I could've made in my own bloody pluming system?" George fumed. "Smells downright nasty."

"Listen, Beatle," Madam Ruth snarled, "either you fork over the three bucks or I squish you with my toe and take back my little creation. You'll see. It'll do wonders for you." George grimaced before handing over the money to the gypsy. Suddenly, her green eyes got very big and she started shaking. "GEORGE HARRISON!" she screamed. "YOU MUST LEAVE HERE AT ONCE! OOOHHHHH!"

George didn't miss a beat. He shot out of there like a flash. Turning back, he saw a streak of lightning crack the sky right above the building. There was a louder moan and George took off down the street, clutching the little bottle of Love Potion Number Nine in his sweaty hand.


	5. Love Potion Number 9

Back in the hotel, George stayed up while the other lads were asleep in bed. He rolled the bottle of love potion back and forth in his hands, debating with himself. He stood up, and then sat back down again. Uncorking the bottle, he sniffed the contents, gagged, and corked it again. He held the bottom of the bottle with his fingertips and squinted, trying to see daylight through the liquid inside.

Again, he stood up, but this time he walked to the bathroom and looked himself in the mirror. Then, he looked at the bottle again. Who knew what was in that stuff? If he drank it, would it make him change physically? Would it make him unable to play the guitar? Would he have to quit the band?

On the other hand, Madam Ruth guaranteed that he wouldn't regret its use. Maybe if he used it, he would get Jacqueline to notice him. He had seen her on the street as he ran home, but she started running in the other direction. The more he saw her, the more he liked her and wanted her to like him back.

If drinking the weird liquid meant that he could get her to like him, George was willing to brave the bad taste and possible side effects. Slowly, he uncorked the potion again, held his nose, closed his eyes, and took a drink.

It tasted just as bad as it looked. As it slithered down his throat, George grabbed his neck and started gagging. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to strangle the bad flavor out of his tongue. His knees started to go weak and he began to lose his balance. He crumpled to the floor and blacked out.

. . . .

When he came around, he didn't know what time it was. Clocks had no meaning. He slowly stood up and brushed himself off. Suddenly, he had much more confidence and he felt like he could get any girl to fall for him. He walked out of the hotel room and set out to find a girl.


End file.
